Tarnished Badge
by aussieokie
Summary: Written for The Blacklist Hiatus Exchange for my recipient, Alyb123. Donald Ressler's world changed in an instant the night he visited Laurel Hitchin to retrieve his badge. A badge that he had wanted back, but now could barely look at it. Plagued with the consequences of his actions, how could he ever be the same, and deal with what he had done?
1. Chapter 1

Ressler woke with a start, finding himself slouched over on his couch, and the first thing he noticed was the ache in his neck from the uncomfortable position he was in. As he opened his eyes and took in the dim room around him, he glanced at the wall clock. It was after 3:00am. He should get in bed. Why wasn't he in bed? And why was he still in his suit and coat? And as he moved to haul himself off the couch, he stopped as it all came crashing back like an out of control freight train. He'd killed Laurel Hitchin.

"Shit…" he whispered, sitting on his couch, but seeing in his mind's eye the events of the previous evening. Like slow motion, it replayed through his head. The grip of her long fingers on his arm. His spin around to her as he'd yelled at her to stop, and him wrenching his arm from her grip. He'd only wanted her to let go. To stop goading him so he could leave her presence. The moment she spun away from him, carried by the momentum of his jerking his arm away, he had not realized the full impact of what was happening. Even as she'd toppled on her spindly heels, her fate now set in stone, still he hadn't seen it coming. Only when the dull thud and barely audible crack reached his ears did his heart jump even further in his chest. Only when the dark red pool of blood from her shattered skull and brain flowed onto her rug did he finally realize the horror of his actions. She was dead. He'd killed her. And worse even than that, he'd covered it up. Had called Reddington and within the hour, Henry Prescott had shown up to fix his mess.

He swallowed hard against the rising bile. And in a rush, he moved quickly, reaching his bathroom just in time to throw up into the toilet. Retching, sweating, his heart hammering, he closed his eyes against the image. But he couldn't shut it out. The red puddle of blood creeping around her skull. Her glassy eyes that would never see again. Henry Prescott, coolly surveying the body and telling him it was time for him to leave. And he had followed those instructions like a puppet, putting his fate in someone else's hands. Shaking, he stood up and turned to the sink, ran the cold water then splashed it over his face, then rinsed out his mouth. He then stood with his face buried in the towel, eyes closed, yet still seeing what he'd done.

He gave up on sleep, and was surprised he'd even managed to grab the couple of hours he had. After showering, he shaved, which was a little more difficult with a hand that was still shaking slightly. Thank god for electric razors. If he'd had to use a blade this morning, who knows how many nicks he'd have ended up with. He opened his bathroom cabinet, and for the first time in a very long time, his eyes rose to the top shelf. The shelf where he'd kept his pain numbing Oxy in the past. No, he admonished himself and slammed the cabinet door shut, hearing the contents fall about inside.

"Damn it," he hissed and left his bathroom, paced around his bedroom with fists clenched. And then more for something to keep his hands occupied than anything else, he quickly threw on a clean shirt and suit. His tie felt like it was choking him, and with a hiss, he loosened it then pulled open the top button of his shirt. It was only when he walked back into the living room and passed the windows that he realized it was still dark. It was two hours before he normally left for work. Knowing it would look unusual if he went in at this time - because, despite the hammering in his throat he knew that he needed to look 'normal' today. He made his way to the kitchen for some coffee, planning to sit and wait and go in at his regular time of 7:00am. Except he couldn't. His attempt at making coffee ended up with him dropping it and smashing the cup - his favorite - all over his kitchen floor as he jumped back, hot coffee splashing everywhere. At that he gave up. He quickly wiped down his shoes and lower legs of his pants where the coffee had not sunk in yet on his dark suit, then headed for the door, grabbed his coat and keys and slammed his apartment door as he left.

###

Having ignored the looks from the guards at the elevator when he'd arrived just after 5:00am, Ressler had done nothing other than sit at his desk and stare at his badge. He hadn't been able to slip it back into its comfortable spot on his belt. He twirled his pen, sitting at his desk dividing his thoughts between his badge sitting there accusingly, and still back in Laurel Hitchin's dining room. At some point he rose and had a more successful attempt at making coffee, yet it sat largely ignored on his desk after a couple of mouthfuls. And when the elevator doors slid open with the familiar metallic sound some time later, he glanced up and saw Cooper entering. His boss saw him through his window blinds and nodded, and took a detour to speak with him.

As he entered Ressler's office, coat over his arm, he greeted Ressler. "Morning, Don. I thought I was the only early bird. Couldn't wait to get stuck into things after getting your badge back, I see," he said, smiling.

His badge... The badge that was still sitting on his desk in front of him, that he hadn't been able to tear his eyes from, knowing what it had cost to retrieve it. With an effort, Ressler gave his boss a small shrug. "Yeah. Figured I'd make an early start." It was all he could think of saying, and fervently hoped his boss couldn't see the rapid pulse beating in the vein of his neck. He spun in his chair, stared at his badge with its gold sheen and blue seal that he had always admired, but now found sickening, then reached over and fired up his computer screen.

Cooper hovered in the doorway, watching Ressler. His voice softened, taking on that fatherly tone Ressler had heard on occasion. "You okay, Don?"

And with long practice at putting walls around himself to hide the inner man, Ressler spun slowly back to his boss, and actually managed a smile. A pretty convincing one, apparently. "Yeah, I just wasn't sure I was going to get my badge back, so just kinda, uh, savoring the moment."

Satisfied, Cooper nodded to him. "Good deal," he said and turned to head up to his own office. "You've earned it," he called back, leaving Ressler to his thoughts.

Watching the lights flicker on upstairs as Cooper entered his workspace, Ressler gave a shuddering sigh and leaned heavily back in his chair. Earned it. He hadn't earned it. He had killed for it. And still it sat on his desk, almost glaring at him. With an effort, Ressler grabbed hold of it and threw the wallet in his inside pocket, then pinned the shield back on his belt. It felt heavy, and not at all like the comfortable presence it had always filled him with. That knowledge that he stood on the right side of the law. Was one of the good guys. But now blood had been spilled for the sake of that badge, forever tarnishing all that it represented. Forever tarnishing him.

###

An hour later he was still in his office, the clock having just passed 7:00am. And he had done nothing. It was just as well Cooper wasn't keeping tabs on the progress of the 'early start' he'd told him he was getting, because nothing had been achieved. Again the elevator doors opened and Samar and Aram walked in together. Ressler barely gave them a glance, and for once, was glad Liz was not on time. The longer he had to collect his thoughts before facing her, the better. Because she would know. Maybe not the specifics. Most definitely not the specifics, but she would take one look at him and just know.

Five minutes later he was head down at his desk, actually doing a little bit of work for the first time that morning. It was all a ploy, of course, for Liz's potential arrival. He didn't see Cooper approaching, and suddenly his boss was beside his desk. Ressler looked up, briefly startled, and for a moment couldn't decipher the expression on Cooper's face.

"Sir?"

Cooper squinted a little, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took his glasses off, then spoke. "I just got a call," he said, then paused. Ressler leaned back in his chair, watching his boss carefully. "It was the Secret Service." Ressler's heart leapt. "And they would like me to head over to Laurel Hitchin's home immediately." Ressler didn't dare open his mouth, and held his breath. "And they have asked specifically that you accompany me." Ressler's heart hammered in his chest. "They didn't say why. Only that they would like you and I there." Cooper stopped, looked at Ressler a moment longer with those eyes that Ressler feared said more than he was sharing, then added, "So, let's not keep them waiting."

Ressler sat still a moment longer, then managed a nod and stood up, ready to follow his boss. Ready to get the cuffs slammed on him? Ready to be charged in her murder? Perhaps. Maybe he was ready. Maybe it was right. And trying to control his breathing, he grabbed his coat from the hook, ready to leave with Cooper. He hadn't said a word to his boss, and with one more raised eyebrow and puzzled look from Cooper, they left Ressler's office and walked to the elevator.

The journey across town to Hitchin's house was almost unbearable. He was literally counting down the minutes to when he'd be arrested for murder, while Cooper seemed to have slipped back into his calm demeanor. Ressler silently stewed as he sat in the back seat beside his boss as Cooper's driver ferried them to their destination. And perhaps it was because they were not alone that Cooper didn't say much, Ressler wondered. Heart hammering in his chest, the streets sped by outside the window, and before long they were pulling into the long driveway of the riverfront home. And as they came around a lazy bend in the road, with large shade trees either side, Ressler's chest constricted even more. Three black SUVs were parked by her home, two with their blue and red strobe lights silently rotating. A large SWAT van was off to one side. Four or five men in black stood guard at the home, while to one side several men dressed in SWAT fatigues and assault rifles stood by. Ressler wasn't sure how he managed to exit the car, but he accomplished it in one piece. He stood, heart in his mouth as Cooper walked to him.

"Something's going on, for sure," Cooper said softly, as a man with an ear piece, and who just reeked of being Secret Service walked briskly from the home toward them.

"Special Agent Hal Roberts," he introduced himself, shaking Cooper's hand, then Ressler's. "Agent Cooper, Agent Ressler, this way, if you please." Ressler speculated if that same hand would be slapping cuffs on him very soon.

Ressler fell in behind his boss and made his way on shaky legs up the steps toward the open double doors of the home. The same steps he'd walked in a daze down last night after Prescott had dismissed him to start his cleanup. He inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to calm his heart and quivering chest. They wound their way through the home toward the back, but Ressler knew the way. He knew where they were going. His mind whirled. Why were they here? The Secret Service boys obviously knew something had happened to Hitchin. But Prescott was supposed to have fixed it so there was no trace left. Wasn't he? Had Prescott left something behind? Been shoddy in his clean up? Something sure as hell had the cavalry out here today. But Red had trusted the guy to fix this.

His thoughts were interrupted as Roberts turned abruptly, his hand raised and faced them. "Understand, I have called you in as a courtesy between agencies, sir," he said, addressing Cooper, "this is not your jurisdiction." He nodded to two more black suited men with ear pieces as they walked past. This man was obviously in charge. "I also asked you here, as Agent Ressler's superior, because we have questions we need to ask him." He looked to Ressler and all Ressler could do was stare back, concentrating on keeping his breathing even.

Cooper glanced at Ressler then back to Roberts. "Whatever you need to say to Agent Ressler, you can say in front of me also. He's here with me." Ressler nodded at that, thankful for Cooper's support, because his throat was clenched so tight he wasn't sure he could speak without implicating himself, or at the very least, keep his voice steady.

"Very well, if you will both come this way please, you will see why I have called you." At this point, Ressler really did not want to see why they had been called. Roberts turned, then walked away down the hallway toward the dining room as they followed, and it was all Ressler could do to keep walking. Thank god he'd had no breakfast, because his stomach churned uncomfortably with every step he took.

They entered the living room and the recliner Ressler had been sitting in last night came into view. His eyes lingered on the seat in front of him, noting the lace curtained window to the right. Bright sunlight streamed into the room now, a far cry from the twilight that had surrounded him as he'd sat here hours before. He didn't dare look to his left. Didn't dare show that he knew exactly where something had happened in this room, and with an effort he kept his eyes on the chair and this side of the room.

Beside him, he heard Cooper gasp. "My God!"

Hardly daring to breathe, Ressler looked quickly at his boss - who was looking to their left. Ressler followed his gaze, looking toward the dining room for the first time, and all the air left his lungs. He grabbed the back of the recliner.

Laurel Hitchin's body lay on the ground, exactly how he'd left it last night.

She was still here! His mind raced. What had Prescott done?! Nothing! He hadn't fixed it at all! Cooper turned to stare at him, and all he could do was look at his boss in horror. Prescott hadn't moved her or cleaned up! Inhaling shakily, Ressler stared through the black suited pant legs to where her body lay, just as he'd last seen her. What the hell?!

Giving them barely a moment to collect their thoughts, Hal Roberts turned back to them. "You see why I have called you here. The President's National Security Advisor is dead. Murdered. We understand you were here yesterday, Agent Ressler. Her housekeeper confirmed. You recognize now why we have questions."

Ressler nodded, unable to drag his eyes off Hitchin and the still visible blood puddle around her skull. "Yes, I was here in the afternoon," he managed. Cooper nodded, turned from the sight of the body to Ressler, who plowed on. "Then once more, in the evening. Briefly," he added. When covering a lie, tell the truth as closely as you can. And he was doing that. He had been to the home twice yesterday, and that was easily corroborated.

"Do you mind telling us why you were here?"

Ressler finally averted his eyes from Hitchin, turned a little and faced the man. "I had a meeting with Ms. Hitchin in the afternoon-"

"Along with another gentleman," Roberts interjected. "The housekeeper mentioned that too. Who was that man, and what was the nature of your business?"

Cooper spoke up. "His identity is classified," he said evenly, making it clear he was not going to give Roberts that. "Under the terms of the Federal Confidential Informant agreement, I will not disclose his identity. Nor will I disclose the contents of that meeting."

Robert's steel grey eyes held Coopers a moment longer. "Very well," he said, then turned back to Ressler, "what time were you here in the evening. Briefly," he added, emphasizing the word, Ressler noticed.

Ressler held his breath, wanting to pinch himself to give him something to focus on, but held his hands steady at his sides. "Late afternoon. Early evening. I don't recall the exact time." He held his eyes steady, forcing them not to stray once more to the recliner he'd sat on while the sun was setting.

Roberts nodded then continued. "And what was the purpose of that visit. Why was it necessary to come here twice within a few hours?"

Cooper spoke again. "If I may. Ms. Hitchin called me after Agent Ressler's meeting with her in the afternoon, and requested he return. I'm sure you're well aware of what transpired between Agent Ressler and Ms. Hitchin a few weeks ago." Robert's nodded, glancing at Ressler, then back to Cooper. "His badge was taken from him at that time, pending an investigation. Having been cleared, Ms. Hitchin asked me if she could return his badge to him personally."

Roberts nodded, sliding his eyes back to Ressler. "I see. And did you receive your badge?"

In reply, Ressler moved his coat aside, showing the man the badge clipped firmly to his belt. He couldn't bear the thought of it. "Yes, I did." He held his tongue. He'd been about to add 'and then I left immediately' but that would appear too eager. Too quick to give himself an alibi.

And yet, Hitchin was still dead on the floor. Alibis and careful words were not going to mean jack shit very soon. He'd been the last person to see her alive and he was on very, very shaky ground here. And part of him just wanted to confess, get it over with and hold his wrists out so this man could throw the cuffs on him right there. The other part held his tongue, held his breath, kept his eyes averted from the body on the floor, and waited for the hammer to fall.


	2. Chapter 2

Ressler barely heard the remaining short questions fired at him, answering them one at a time, giving the facts. They were basically the same questions, just rephrased. They were trying to catch him in a lie. If Roberts was going to arrest him for murder, why the hell was he taking so long?

"And she was alive when you left?" he asked Ressler once more.

Ressler glared at him. "Yes," he told the man, lying through his teeth, but angry enough now that it covered his apprehension. How many times did he have to answer the same question? Perhaps until the man didn't see a flicker in his eyes? He struggled to bring that under control.

"Very well, that will do, for now. But we may have more questions, if you could wait."

"I won't leave town, yeah, I got it," Ressler replied. And he wasn't sure where this bravado was coming from, but it was slightly preferable to feeling the noose tightening around his neck. Or, the cuffs around his wrists, more to the point. At least it made him feel a little more in control.

They were interrupted by an agent entering the room quickly and speaking to Roberts in a hushed voice. Roberts nodded to the agent, then called out to the men around the body. "Coroner is here, clear a path." Half a dozen men stepped back, giving Ressler a clear view of her body for the first time since they'd arrived. His stomach lurched, while his anger at Prescott grew. But he was also well aware it wasn't only directed at the Fixer, but at himself. He should never have been in a position to need a fixer. Even one who had done nothing to clean up the situation.

"We don't need to watch this," Cooper said, turning away to let the coroner do his work. But Ressler stood, fascinated. Almost mesmerized by the sight. The horror of it had plagued his dreams and waking moments ever since he'd struck her, yet now he found himself rooted to the spot. His mind was in overdrive as the coroner removed a probe from his black case, then inserted it into Hitchin's right upper abdomen, to take the liver temp and ascertain the time of death. And Ressler knew already what it was going to say. Between 7 and 8 pm, around sunset. He swallowed hard, again waiting for the armed SWAT men to surround him, not unlike they had Reddington the first day he'd turned himself in. There was no getting away from the fact he was here moments before her death. He was done. It was only a matter of time before the dots were connected.

"Time of death…."

Ressler held his breath, resigned to his fate.

"...between 11pm and midnight," the coroner finished.

What? He exhaled in a rush. That wasn't right! Ressler's eyes widened, then turned away from the sight of the man leaning over Hitchin, still examining the body. That was hours after he'd killed her. That was the wrong time. Or...was it wrong? A rush of hope surged through him, followed immediately by more guilt. This was Prescott. He HAD done something after all. He'd changed the time of death to hours after Ressler was here. To when Ressler was back home. But was it enough? Cooper was talking to him, and all he heard were the last few words.

"... can't believe this," Cooper finished.

"Me neither," Ressler agreed, but his boss had no idea how much of it Ressler couldn't believe. His mind reeled at just how Prescott had changed her body temperature to affect time of death. Raised her body temperature to delay cooling? Unless the coroner was lying and covering up the time if he was in Prescott's (or Reddington's) pocket? Either way, Prescott had done it. Across the room, they were preparing to lift the body onto the waiting gurney. And at this, Ressler did turn away. It was too much like Audrey. He'd sat on the roadway and watched the coroner take her from his arms and load her onto the gurney that day.

"Hold it! Wait!" a cry went up from behind him, and both he and Cooper spun around.

"Stand back!" someone said. "Get a photo of that!" another man was calling out, and the photographer rushed over, positioned himself and started clicking away with his camera.

"What's going on?" Cooper asked Roberts, but he was already heading into the throng of men who had regrouped around the body.

"Okay, we got it photographed," they heard, "Bag it and tag it." Roberts took an evidence bag from someone as they stood up. And now Ressler saw what it was. His heart lurched and he knew again this was Prescott's doing. They had found a Glock 19 handgun underneath Hitchin's body as they had moved her. A gun that he knew for a fact had not been there when she hit the floor. While relieved Prescott had in fact done something, the guilt within him ate him alive. But another thought was tearing its way relentlessly through his mind. Why the hell had Henry Prescott placed a gun under her body?

Feeling like they were now definitely in the way, Cooper nudged Ressler to the side. "I know they said they may have more questions, but what say we step outside for a bit." Ressler didn't need to be asked twice. He needed some air. Stepping out into the morning sun of the back patio, Ressler gazed across the expansive gardens, but the beauty of the large lawn and surrounding trees and garden beds was lost on him as his thoughts raced. Part way up the huge grassed area, a line of half a dozen suited men were slowly walking away from them, heads bent, examining every inch of the property. Even Ressler had to admit, he admired their attention to detail.

Behind them, the doors opened to let the coroner and his gurney out, before wheeling its deadly contents to the waiting van. Ressler glanced at it, then turned away, unable to stomach the sight of the black body bag. Cooper stepped over to a white wicker patio chair and sat down, but Ressler stood, seemingly unable to move at this point. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stood quietly by his boss, his eyes distant, wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this one.

And Ressler was still staring at the large garden when a shout went up from one of the suited men on the search line, some 50 feet up the garden from them now. "Got something!" he called out and every man stopped dead. Kneeling down, the man stuck a small orange flag into the lawn. A flurry of activity surrounded them as two-way radio's squawked.

Roberts rushed out of the house behind them, holding a two-way radio in his hand. "What have you got?" he shouted into the radio, already jogging toward the search line. Cooper was on his feet immediately, catching Ressler's eye. Roberts was already at the line, squatting down to examine the grass. After a moment, he stood up again. "Continue! Look for more!" The men continued their slow steady pace now, scanning the grass more intently now. Ressler's heart was in his mouth once more. What had they found? Cooper echoed that thought exactly as he came to stand at Ressler's side.

"Over here!" a shout went up, and again the men stopped dead while Roberts studied the grass at the second location as a second flag was placed. "Okay, fan out in this direction! Move!" The men did not need to be told twice. Reforming their line, they headed in a different direction that led toward the heavier trees of the property. Unable to contain himself a second longer, Ressler suddenly found himself moving. Cooper was at his side, just as curious.

"What is it? What have you found?" Cooper asked Roberts. In reply, Roberts, who was still talking into the two-way radio, pointed to the first orange flag that was being guarded by a SWAT team member. It was blood. A clearly unmistakable stream of blood on the grass. Still red and somewhat sticky looking, it gleamed in the morning sun. Ressler was horrified. What had Prescott done?

With a direction in which to follow now, the search line called out every few steps, placing more flags. A distinct trail of blood, now clearly marked with little orange flags waving in the soft breeze led away from the house. Ressler and Cooper glanced at each other, and with mutual consent, ignoring Roberts, both began to walk silently behind the line of men as they followed the blood trail. Ressler's hand briefly wandered to the butt of his gun, but he dropped it just as quickly. This was not their crime scene or jurisdiction. He almost let out a short humorless laugh. He was just the perpetrator of the crime they were investigating.

"Over here!" the shout went up, heard both in person and on the two-way radio behind them. Roberts ran past them, again on his two way. "What have you got?" he yelled, jogging up to the group ahead. "A body, sir!" came the reply.

Ressler's stomach lurched as he stopped in his tracks. Another body. What the hell? The line had stopped under a large tree, circling something on the grassy ground, as the sunlight shone down in small circles of light across the area.

"What the hell?" Cooper swore beside him, echoing Ressler's thought's exactly.

"Come on," Cooper said determinedly, touching Ressler's arm briefly to get him moving again. "Jurisdiction be damned. He called us here, and we're taking a look."

In response to the discovery of another body, SWAT team members held fingers to their ears, hearing instructions. As one, they jogged together, guns at their side and headed toward the tree line, forming a wider circle around the grouped men.

"Who is he? Does he have ID on him?" Roberts was asking as Cooper and Ressler approached the large group of men. They couldn't see the body, only parts of two jean clad legs and boots lying face up in the grass. "None that we can find, sir," came the reply as a man carefully searched pockets of the deceased. Roberts turned to another man. "Stevens, get that coroner back here, pronto." As he was addressing Stevens, he noticed Cooper and Ressler right behind him. "We got a body, no ID. Appears to be two gunshot wounds to the abdomen. Ton of blood loss."

That part had been obvious, judging by the blood trail they'd been following, thought Ressler. His heart was hammering in his chest. Things were moving out of control. Another body. What the hell?

Cooper spoke up beside him, addressing Roberts. "Did Hitchin shoot him? Any idea?"

"Already on that." Roberts spoke into his two-way again. "Johnny, take a look at that handgun. Has it been fired recently?" He clicked off the mic to await the reply, speaking briefly to another agent. The radio squawked again. "Yes, sir. This gun has been fired recently. Recent powder burns on it, and two shells missing from the chamber."

Roberts looked to Cooper. "It would appear Ms. Hitchin fired at her killer. But let's not jump to conclusions just yet, until ballistics can match bullets." Ressler felt sick. And again, his mind screamed 'what the hell?', unable to comprehend what Prescott had done. Heart hammering in his chest, he looked between the men in front of him, catching a glimpse of a blood soaked shirt under a leather jacket. A large pool of blood was under the victim, soaking the grass with a deep red stain. He'd bled out right here.

"And no ID?" Cooper was asking, and again, Ressler was thankful his boss was on the ball, while he was quietly losing it, thoughts running rampant.

"None. Take a look yourself," he said, and stepped back, asking a couple of men to step aside to let the FBI in. Cooper and Ressler stepped up to look at the body. And at the sight Ressler froze, gasping in horror as his heart leapt in his chest. No. NO! Cooper swore beside him, spinning to face Ressler in astonishment.

Julian Gale lay dead on the ground at their feet.

###

"You know him?" Roberts asked unnecessarily. Of course they knew him. That much was obvious to everyone. Ressler couldn't speak, still staring into the glazed, dead eyes of his former friend and colleague. This could not be happening.

Cooper replied, looking away from Gale and up to Roberts. "FBI Agent Julian Gale."

"FBI?" Well that changes things. What happened here?" asked Roberts. "What was this Gale's connection to Ms. Hitchin?"

Ressler didn't hear the answer, staring in shock at the sight at his feet as his heart hammered and his stomach roiled. Prescott had saved his ass only to pin it on Gale? No! Julian was covered in blood, eyes staring out from his unshaven face, hands saturated in his own blood. Hands that had clutched at his stomach, trying futilely to stem the flow as he died for a crime he had not committed. Unsure if he was going to throw up, collapse, or cry, Ressler stepped back, dragging his eyes from Julian. He walked away as the voices, men and two-way radios faded behind him. Under the edge of the trees where they met the lawn, sunlight catching him in small shards he came to a halt, unable to take another step. He squatted down, leaning his back against a tree. Julian was dead. Screaming inwardly at himself, his mind was in overdrive. This was his fault. He had not known how Prescott was going to fix this, but Ressler was now responsible for two deaths.

"No….no…." he whispered. He shut his eyes against it all. Hitchin, Prescott, and now Gale. A hand touched his shoulder and his eyes flew open.

"Don, you okay?" Cooper asked, his hand still on his shoulder as his boss leaned down to him.

Ressler nodded. "I'm fine... It's just…" He rose unsteadily to his feet.

"It's a shock, yes. I'm very sorry." He patted Ressler's shoulder then dropped his hand. "I know he was your friend."

Ressler nodded, tears pricking his eyes. He blinked rapidly, averting his eyes from Cooper. This man HAD been his friend. Sure, he'd sought to topple the task force at the end, but he had worked side by side with him. Shared years of history with him. Shared shoddy motel rooms on stake outs, drank beer with him. Laughed with him at times over the irreverent things he could say. Cried with him and hugged the man the night Julian's father had died. He had been his friend, and now he had killed Julian as surely as he'd killed Laurel Hitchin. Unconsciously, he wiped his hands against his coat, as if to wipe the unseen blood from them.

He felt Cooper pat his back. "Give me little while, I just want a few words with Roberts, then we can get out of here." Ressler nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets, leaning back against the tree as his boss walked back to the men gathered around Julian's body. In the distance, he heard more voices approaching, and looking up, spied the coroner back again for his second visit of the day.

And at that, Ressler moved, unable to watch a second body loaded onto a gurney today, dead because of him. Walking under the trees away from the house, he found himself stepping out from under the green canopy onto a narrow, sandy patch of beach on the riverfront. He was still on Hitchin's property, and head down, hands in his coat pockets he walked along the waterline. The voices of those around Julian Gale wafted across the breeze to him. He stopped at the far end of the small beach and turned and faced the water, deep in thought.

He was completely trapped in this nightmare. He wanted to scream. Wanted to run away from all of this, but also wanted to turn around and confess. Better that and face the consequences, right? Or not. He wanted to call Prescott and ask him what the hell he had done. And yet, Prescott had only set these events in motion because of what he himself had caused when he'd killed Hitchin. It was a mess. A complete and utter screw up from beginning to end.

"Hey, saw you come down here," Cooper's voice startled Ressler from his thoughts. "We're done here and Roberts has given us permission to leave," he said. "How gracious of him," he added sarcastically, watching Ressler.

Ressler turned to him. "Let's get the hell out of here," he told his boss, and all thoughts of whether to scream, run or confess were shelved for the time being as they walked back up the small beach. And past the body of a man who had not deserved any of this.


	3. Chapter 3

Arriving at the post office after the drive back, in which Cooper spent most of it on the phone, Ressler and Cooper stepped from the elevator. Aram was waiting for them, and nervously asked them, "Is it true…? We heard that Laurel Hitchin-"

"Yes, Aram. It is true. Laurel Hitchin is dead," Cooper told him, making their way down the war room as Liz and Samar came into earshot.

"My gosh," Liz gasped. "Do they know what happened?"

Cooper stopped, glanced at Ressler, and sighed, "Yes, they have an idea." He glanced again at the stone faced Ressler, and continued. "It would appear that Julian Gale was involved-" He was cut short by the exclaims from all three of them, while Ressler looked away.

"Because of her shutting down his Grand Jury?" Liz and Samar asked together. "What the hell was he thinking?" added Samar.

Ressler could stand it no longer. "We'll never know what he was thinking because he's dead too."

"Whoa, seriously?" Aram whispered, his eyes taking in all of them as they grasped this new information.

"I'm afraid so," said Cooper, patting Ressler on the back as he moved up to his office. "I have more calls to make. This may not be our jurisdiction, but it has caused a shake up in the upper ranks, as you can imagine." As Cooper headed away from them up the stairs, all eyes turned to Ressler.

"I'm sorry," Liz told him, as Aram and Samar offered similar platitudes. Ressler nodded, did not meet their eyes, and tried to step away.

"How did he die?" asked Samar, ever the practical one of the group.

He turned his eyes back to her mid-step. "He was shot twice," Ressler said as the image of Julian lying dead on the grass came to the forefront again.

"Wow," Liz gasped. "And Hitchin, she shot him?"

"His body was beside hers?" asked Samar.

"This really happened?" Aram asked.

Ressler wanted them all to just stop asking him. "Looks that way," he said, "and no, he was at the back of her property, away from the house." And this time he did push past them and headed for his desk, before they could ask anything more. Thankfully, they took the hint and did not follow him as he slumped down in his chair.

But his solitude was short lived as Liz stepped into their shared office a few minutes later. "Are you okay?" Unable to meet her eyes, he nodded silently. But at the touch of her hand on his shoulder, he slumped a little, flinching at the contact. "Ress?" she asked, as she sat on the edge of his desk.

His eyes were still down, not meeting hers. "I'm f-"

"Don't tell me you're fine. You're not fine. I know you."

He swiveled in the chair to face her. She did know him. It's why he should probably avoid talking to her. But now that she was beside him, he had the insane urge to spill everything. But he couldn't. It was too big. Too much. This was something he alone was going to have to digest and live with. And he would get to live with it, he thought bitterly, unlike the two whose lives he was directly responsible for snuffing out.

"What do you want me to say, Liz? I just saw my friend's body lying dead under a tree. So, I'm not exactly fine. I'm..." he couldn't finish the sentence, because he was unable to tell her all the things he was right then. He was unable to tell her why Julian had been lying under that tree. That he was dead in order to cover his own ass after murdering someone.

In reply, she patted his shoulder. He'd had a lot of that today. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine how you feel. He was your friend."

He nodded, not trusting himself to say more. And was saved from doing just that as Liz's phone lit up. "Sorry, it's Reddington. He's got a case for us."

Ressler didn't think he could even care about a case. Not today. But then work had always been his solace, and right now he needed to get his mind under control and bury some of this. "What's he got?" he asked, forcing his brain to think about something else. He wasn't doing a very good job of it, but he was determined to go through the motions.

"Are you sure you want to know? Maybe you should take the rest of the day off?" she suggested, but he shook his head.

"I need to work." And now that he'd said the words, that's exactly what he intended to do. It was the only way to get through things. It had always been that way in the past and was today.

Her phone dinged again, with more information from Reddington, via Dembe. "We have an address. He said we're to meet a Mr. Reginald Hill at this address," she said, showing him her phone.

"That's it? No briefing?" Ressler asked, and she shook her head.

"I don't think he's feeling 'fine' either," she said, "after what happened with Kate and Baz. He's texting more information now. Apparently this Mr. Hill..."

But Ressler wasn't listening. Despite his efforts to remain focused at work, his mind couldn't stay off Laurel Hitchin, Julian Gale and Henry Prescott. And the fact he was now lying to everyone around him.

###

In the parking lot, Liz hesitated at the car. "Let me drive."

"Why?" he asked, challenging her.

"Because you're...upset," she said carefully, gauging his reaction. "Distracted…"

He looked away, then back up at her. "Yeah, but I can still drive." She shrugged and climbed into the passenger seat beside him, punching the address into the GPS.

Some 30 minutes later they arrived at the address. It was on the river, but in the opposite direction to Hitchin's house, Ressler noted with relief. If he'd had to drive toward her home again, well, he'd have been even more distracted, which would have been putting it mildly. Apparently this Mr. Hill was an associate of Reddington's who had some information. Ressler just hoped this was quick, because he was beginning to think Liz had been right, and going home may have been his best option today. As they entered the large home, let in by the housekeeper, Ressler couldn't keep his mind on things. The home was similar in size and location to Hitchin's.

As they came out onto the back patio, Ressler inhaled sharply. The gardens might have been done by the same landscaper as Hitchin's. A large manicured lawn, surrounded by trees and garden beds off the sides, leading down toward the river. He stopped, taking it all in, seeing another garden, a line of men walking, placing orange flags at intervals at blood spatter on the grass. Julian's blood.

Liz introduced them both to Mr. Hill. Ressler nodded to the man, who appeared to be mid-50s, nervous and was wringing his hands. "Reddington said you have some information for us?" Liz asked, wanting to get right down to business.

"Well, yes and no. I do. Yes. I do," the man said quickly, licking his lips, looking over his shoulder toward the garden.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Hill?" Liz asked warily. Ressler looked at the man who was unable to keep still.

"I, well, yes. Perhaps I should just show you?" he said, almost pleading with them. Ressler nodded to the man as he turned to lead them to what he needed to show them. They stepped off the patio and onto the lawn, past a large water fountain, and across the grass toward the back of a large multi car garage. The area was more shaded and stepping under the trees, Ressler followed Liz, but his mind was back in another tree covered garden, following a blood trail marked by orange flags.

Behind the garage, Hill stopped, and turned to face them. "He's a colleague of mine. He had information for Raymond. Information that Raymond needed, you see. And, well. He came to meet me this morning. I came to get the information, and…"

"Mr. Hill, is something wrong? Has something happened?" Liz asked while Ressler tried to focus on the nervous man, and not what his garden looked like.

"Oh, dear. Here," Hill said, stepping behind a row of hedges. "This has happened."

Stepping up to the man and looking at what he was indicating, Ressler's heart lurched in his chest. On the ground lay a body. A man lying face up, his chest and abdomen covered in blood from two or three bullet wounds. Ressler's mind reeled as his heart thumped in his chest. Not again! Another body in the grass, covered in blood with a blood pool around him. He gasped and stepped back away from the sight. All he could see was Julian, those dead eyes staring up at him, almost accusing him of murdering him. Julian's torso saturated in his own blood. Julian who was dead because of him.

"No," he gasped and turned, walking away from Liz and Mr. Hill, not hearing anything they were saying. "No!" he hissed. Picking up the pace he left them, heading back around the garage. He couldn't stay here. Screaming inside, he jogged now, heading around the house to reach the car. "No!" he gasped again. His mind swam with visions of Hitchin surrounded in blood. Julian surrounded in blood. Ressler felt like he had blood all over his own body as he ran now, ran for the car in the driveway. He needed to get out of here.

Starting up the car, he was just about to back out of the driveway when Liz appeared. She ran to the car window and hit it hard with her palm to get his attention. "Ressler!"

Mind whirling, he slammed on the brake, as his eyes caught hers. "Damn," he cursed, and lowered the window.

"Don't leave!" she yelled as the window lowered. "Are you okay? Talk to me!"

He shut off the ignition and sat in the car dropping his head as he struggled to control his breathing. He shut his eyes tight, but all he could see were dark red pools of blood and bodies. She hadn't moved from the open driver's side window as he looked up at her again. "I can't do this. Not right now."

Her tone changed, as she put her hand through the window and kept it on his shoulder. And he wasn't sure if it was for support, or to stop him driving off. Perhaps a bit of both. "I know. It's okay, I'll call Cooper and get Samar over here. Then I can go back and talk to Mr. Hill, and find out more about what's going on here."

He nodded, reaching for the ignition again. He just needed to get out of here. The urge to run was overpowering.

"Go home, Ress, okay? Go home and try and get some rest," she urged him, and he nodded to her. She leaned closer to him now, her voice softening. "You take it easy driving home, and I'll call you when I'm done here and we can talk, okay?"

He was afraid to talk to her. Afraid of what he'd end up telling her. And yet, he still nodded to her. "Okay." And with that, she stepped back and he pulled the car out of the parking area and back up the long driveway.

###

Pounding his hand on the steering wheel in frustration and growing anger, Ressler drove. If he could go back in time to before he met with Hitchin last night, he'd do it in a heartbeat. But that wasn't happening. There was no undoing this now, despite Prescott having come in and 'fixed' it. But halfway home, lucky that there wasn't more traffic on the roads because of how unfocused he was, Ressler knew who he needed to talk to. He pulled his phone out of his inside pocket and hit a number. The number for Nick's Pizza.

"Donald," Red answered softly. "Harold has informed me about Julian Gale."

Ressler grasped the phone tightly in his hand. "We need to talk," he told Red, as his heart hammered in his chest and his lungs were fit to burst. Reddington was the only one he could talk to about this. The only one who knew what had happened with Hitchin, after Ressler had called him last night for help.

"Of course," Red answered, almost as if he'd been expecting this. "Where are you?"

Ressler didn't know, but glancing around at the street names, he saw where he was and gave the location to Reddington.

"I'm not too far from you. Meet me at the park under the bridge. You know the one," Reddington replied and hung up. Ressler knew the one. He'd met Red twice there the day Audrey had been killed. It seemed to be their meeting place whenever blood was spilled, apparently.

A few minutes later he pulled into the tree lined road, making his way closer to the river, before pulling into the parking lot. Reddington hadn't arrived yet. Shutting off the ignition, he sat for a moment. His phone rang, and he saw Liz's caller ID pop up. He could not talk to her right now. Tossing his cell phone in the console, he exited the car and stomped down toward the river, hands in pockets. He gazed at the fast flowing river before him, under the shadow of the bridge, attempting to control his breathing. Behind him, he heard a car pull in, and as two doors opened and closed, he turned, seeing Red walking toward him while Dembe stood outside the car.

"Donald," Red said as he approached. "I am sorry this has happened."

"Yeah, me too," said Ressler turning to him. "Did you know?" he asked Red. "Did you know how Prescott was going to handle this?"

Red gazed at Ressler a moment, then shook his head. "No, I did not know the specifics of what he was going to do. I didn't know he was going to go this route." He stopped, looking at Ressler's darting eyes before him. "But this is what he does, he fixes-"

"You call this fixing it?" Ressler hissed, leaning closer to Red. "He killed Julian Gale to cover up my crime! How is adding to the body count fixing it?" He moved closer to Red, and grabbed the man's coat collar in his hands. Up on the road, Dembe sprang forward, but was stopped as Red waved him down. The fear, frustration and utter torment Ressler had been in all day had found an escape route. "Or did you want him to kill Gale, to get him off your back, and stop him coming after the Task Force? Is that what you wanted, Reddington? Is it? Get him out of the way so you can have free rein once more?" Ressler shouted in Red's face.

Reddington regarded him coolly. "I understand you're upset, Donald. He was your friend," Red replied quietly. "I'd be upset too. But I assure you, I had nothing to do with what happened to Gale." He stopped, eyes calmly regarding the agent, and Ressler saw the cogs turning behind the criminal's eyes. "But-"

"Don't you dare justify this with a 'but', Reddington! There is no excuse for the method he took!" Ressler shrugged the man's collar out of his hands but didn't step back, pointing at the man now. "Don't you dare say this was an ideal method!"

Reddington sighed, nodding at Ressler. "From a personal standpoint, no, it's an absolutely terrible outcome for you. But Donald, if I may, permit me to explain Henry's side of things. I am the one who called him for you, so allow me to be his voice for a moment."

Ressler took a step back from Reddington, hands on hips and grimaced at Red. "Fine. Explain away."

"At the risk of sounding insensitive, I'm rather in awe of the method he utilized," said Red, holding his hand up as Ressler opened his mouth to shout him down again. "Let me explain." Ressler stood still, breathing fast, watching the criminal. "Julian finds loopholes. He exploits the system like no one I've ever met. He's far more than a cleaner." He stopped at that, his eyes narrowed for a moment and then he continued. "He truly has a gift for fixing a situation that is broken. And he can do it in record time, before authorities are notified. He's the best I've ever seen."

"Get done with the mutual admiration society here," Ressler hissed, shaking his head.

Red ignored the remark, and continued. "The route he took was nothing short of brilliant." As Ressler's eyes flashed at that, Red again held up his hand. "Hear me out. Up until a few hours ago, Henry Prescott only knew you as Frank Sturgeon, my associate. But once he was presented with the task of fixing Laurel's death, he sprang into action. In no time at all, he discovered who you were. Not my associate at all, but an FBI agent. And following that trail led him to why you and I had visited Laurel yesterday, and from that, it led him to the Federal Grand Jury and Julian Gale. I tell you, the man is a miracle worker, to establish all of that in such a short time frame-"

He stopped at Ressler's glare. "But yes, enough of the glowing report on the merits of Henry Prescott." Red stared at the river a moment, gathered his thoughts, and then continued. "But after what Gale had said to Laurel at the Grand Jury yesterday, he was the perfect fall guy. The perfect one to frame for this."

Ressler moved forward again. "He didn't have to kill Julian to absolve me! He changed her time of death. That was sufficient to clear me of any involvement!" Ressler shouted again, his face in Reddington's.

Red looked surprised, them immediately impressed. "Did he now? Interesting. Then think, Donald, having changed her time of death, why do you think he would have then gone on to add Julian into the mix?"

Ressler grimaced again, stepped away from Red and then turned back to him. "Like I said, it's very convenient for you, now that he's gone, isn't it?"

And Red smiled at that. "My dear Donald, it may look that way, but I assure you, that was not the reason. Can't you see? Think. Look at yourself."

Ressler stood still, glaring at the criminal. "What do you mean?"

Red sighed, and put his hand on Ressler's shoulder. "Donald, the man you are could never live with the guilt of knowing you were the cause of Laurel's death, no matter that it was accidental. The fact you then covered it up would eat you alive. It already is. While the time of death may have been sufficient to ward off any more accusatory eyes on you by our wonderful men in black, you yourself would have given the game away. The jig would have been up as you sought to hide something that could not be hidden within you."

Ressler stood still, listening to the man as his heart rate settled somewhat. Reddington was right, of course. He'd been unable to hide his emotions all day.

"In framing Julian, not only did Henry sufficiently hide the crime of what happened between you and Laurel, but he also gave you the perfect explanation for your behavior regarding the case and any subsequent mention of her. No one will ever suspect your behavior comes from deep guilt over what happened. Instead, what they will see is your understandable pain and torment over your friend and colleagues murder of Hitchin and his death. Henry gave you the perfect alibi for your emotions."

Ressler stared at Reddington, feeling the anger subside as he had spoken. He had not looked at it this deeply, yet Reddington had put it all together in minutes. He dropped his eyes from the criminal and sighed. "He's still dead because of me. And he didn't deserve that," he said quietly, the fight having raised its ugly head momentarily, but now the beast had been controlled.

"No, he did not deserve it, I agree," said Red. "Whatever problems he may have caused us at the end of his life, dear old Julian was a good man."

"He was, and he paid the price for my actions. He died, and here I am, alive and getting off scot free," Ressler said, shaking his head.

Reddington looked at him a moment with a tilt of his head. "Are you getting off scot free, Donald? I think not," he said kindly.

Ressler dropped his eyes. No, he was not getting a free pass on this one. Legally yes, he was free of any involvement in both deaths. But emotionally, he was going to have to process this and learn how to deal with it in his world.

"My friend, if it helps, I've been where you are more times than I can count. I can truly say, I DO know how you feel. But while circumstances may have defined who I have become, you are not the same as I. You have an ethical part of your being that lies deep inside. That part of you will not be corrupted, tainted or marred. Yes, it may get battered in a few storms, such as this, but you are a good man, and you will learn to rise above this."

Ressler wasn't so sure about that. Good men didn't accidentally kill someone, deliberately cover it up, and end up with two murders on their hands. "Rise above it? I no longer represent what THIS means," he told Reddington, briefly opening his coat to display the gold shield on his belt. The badge that no longer felt part of who he was.

Reddington glanced at the badge, nodded, and patted Ressler on the back in understanding. In unison, knowing that what had needed to be said was now out in the open, they both turned and trudged back up to the vehicles. Ressler felt drained.

As they approached the cars, they heard a phone ring. Dembe answered, held his hand over it and said to Red, "It is Elizabeth." With a smile, Red took the offered phone.

"Lizzie, how are you, my dear? Did you speak with Mr. Hill?" He listened a while, nodded and then his eyes flickered to Ressler. "Well that is unfortunate that poor Stuart met his demise before speaking with Reginald."

Ressler went to step away. He didn't need to hear this. Red held out his hand, touching Ressler's sleeve, stopping him as he spoke into his phone still. "So you can't find Ressler, and he isn't answering his phone? Well, I spoke with Harold, and I know that had to hit Donald hard, with what happened with Gale apparently killing Laurel Hitchin." He looked at Ressler as he continued. "He'll turn up at his apartment soon, I'm sure," he told her, raising his eyebrows and looking pointedly at Ressler. He hung up, and tossed the phone back to Dembe.

"Go home, Donald."


	4. Chapter 4

Ressler followed Reddington's advice and went home, after briefly considering going to the cemetery to visit Audrey and talk to her, then just as quickly dismissing that idea. His brain that had been in overdrive all day was exhausted from the images that had bombarded it relentlessly. Not that he wasn't still seeing Hitchin and Gale's lifeless and blood splattered bodies in his head. Just that the horror had ebbed a little, given how drained he was mentally and physically.

The sun was low in the sky, and his mind was straight back to 24 hours previously. In a slow motion replay now, in contrast with the lurching images that had plagued him all day, he relived it again. The argument, her mocking him, her hand on him, the sharp movement of his arm, her toppling. Her death. Calling Reddington. Sitting waiting for Prescott. All of it happened at this time of day, as the sun began its descent into night. And still thinking of the events the night before, he pulled up at his apartment block, and saw Liz's car parked out front.

He pulled in beside her, and shut off the engine. But with a body that seemed to have forgotten how to get up and exit the vehicle, he sat there, head bowed. In a moment, the passenger door opened and she slipped in quietly, looking across at him. When he didn't say anything, she spoke up.

"I was worried when you weren't answering," she said softly.

He nodded. He hadn't trusted himself to talk to her earlier and had ignored her calls. "Yeah, left my phone in the car," he told her truthfully, but omitted to tell her where he had been and who he'd been talking – shouting – with, and what they had talked about. "Just needed some space."

"Did it help? Clearing your head?"

"A bit, yeah," he replied, glancing at her, as the feelings within him simmered, just below that point where they had been consuming him all day. He put it down to exhaustion. "Look, I'm sorry, about earlier," he added. "I just..."

"It's okay. It was just too much. I understood that, Ress."

And the thought came to him, that Prescott's 'emotional alibi' was already in full swing. He squirmed a little in his seat at that. "Thanks."

"And Cooper was good about it when I called him. He said he'd call you."

He had called while Ressler had been driving home. He'd almost ignored the ringing phone, but the boy scout in him had finally answered. After a brief conversation with his boss, in which he didn't say much in reply, he'd hung up. "He told me to take tomorrow off, and have a long weekend."

"And are you going to?" Liz asked, knowing he was the last person in the world to take a day off work.

The offer was tempting. "I'll think about it," he said noncommittally, but inwardly, knew he'd get right on up and head for work in the morning. It was just the way he was. Even when he'd brought about the deaths of two people. His heart jumped in his chest again. Going to work from now on with that knowledge was going to be his new normal. How could he walk up to people, displaying his badge and representing himself as an officer of the law, when he had done this?

"Can I ask you something? And if you don't want to answer, you don't have to," she said quietly.

"Okay."

She paused, then asked him, "From what you saw today, what do you think happened? And you said Gale was shot, but was some distance away from her," she asked carefully.

He shuddered at the thought of the crime scene. But he was pretty sure he knew what had happened. He'd figured it out on the drive home. Henry Prescott had nabbed Gale, shot him with Hitchin's gun back in the trees, then laid a blood trail back to the house, giving them a trail to follow back to his body. Then placed the gun under Hitchin, and had no doubt got just enough gunshot residue on her hand and her prints on the trigger to prove she'd fired it. And somehow he'd raised her body temp to make it appear that it was hours later that it had occurred. It was the clearest picture he'd got of it all day, staring inwardly at the crime scene.

"Sorry," she said as he remained silent, "I shouldn't have asked, not this soon," she said, looking from him out the windscreen.

He roused himself from his thoughts, and surprised her when he answered. "Her skull had struck the edge of her kitchen counter when she fell, and there was... a lot of blood," he said, seeing it all in slow motion in his mind again as she'd gone down, and hearing that sickening thud as her skull cracked. He trembled at the thought. "Her gun was under her. I guess she dropped it as she fell, and it had been fired twice." He paused, sighed, and continued while she watched him from the passenger seat. "Gale had two bullets in him. He made it to the back of the property before collapsing and... dying." And he was telling it as if that had actually happened. He'd already slipped into the lie to cover up his involvement. And he hated that he was doing it.

She watched him carefully as he spoke, shaking her head. "I can't believe he'd have gone this far though. I mean, I know he was furious she'd shut down his Grand Jury. They must have argued, he struck her, she fired at him, and they killed each other..." she finished slowly.

He didn't answer, because no, that was not how any of this had happened. They wouldn't even be here discussing this scenario but for his actions the night before. The quivering in his chest picked up its pace again.

"It's horrible," she said. He had to agree with that. It was. He'd done a terrible thing and covered it all up. He stared out the windscreen at his apartment building in the fading light, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

"I'm really sorry about Gale," she told him, reaching for his forearm. "I didn't know him, not like you, but he seemed a good guy," she said.

He exhaled heavily, leaning his head on the headrest. "He was." And the image of Julian Gale, a few years younger swam to the forefront of his vision. Of all the times they'd sat in cars on stakeouts, most of them futile in the sense of finding their quarry, but all of them memorable in the conversations they'd shared. He was - had been - a funny guy at times. Quick witted, with a clever analytical mind, and yet a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve. The exact opposite to Ressler - more so at that time - who hid behind a vast array of defenses with the purpose of not letting people get too close. But it was impossible not to like Julian, and he'd teased Ressler continually, and they'd shared many a good laugh, until an unlikely friendship had formed.

"A little unusual, perhaps a little overbearing with a lack of personal space etiquette, but a good guy," she said, smiling a little.

He nodded at that, and still picturing their past in his mind, he answered her. "Yeah, he never did understand those rules of personal space. We all told him to back up many a time, but he was…" His words faded. Julian had been one of a kind. A unique guy who had an affinity for things most would find unpleasant. His fascination with death and the answers bodies could give him. His silent tears over the dear departed as he sought to find their history. "He was the Ghost Whisperer," he said quietly. And now he was with those dead that he was so intrigued by and connected to, he realized.

He took in a shuddering breath, and closed his eyes against the flow of memories. He'd been responsible for this good man's death. Two families would forever suffer the losses he had inflicted on them. "Damn it," he hissed, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what he'd done. What the consequences had been. Laurel Hitchin had a son, and he'd left the boy motherless.

"This is hard, I'm sorry," Liz whispered beside him.

He knew she was sorry, but she had no idea what he'd done. "Shit," he swore, his breath coming faster as his heart rate increased. He couldn't sit here. He reached for the door handle and clambered quickly out of the car, walking away from his apartment and down the street. He just needed to walk. Head bowed, hands in his pockets against the colder evening air, he strode away from the car and Liz with her misplaced sympathy. He did not deserve it.

The sound of her footfalls on the path behind him did not make him stop. He kept walking until she reached him. Her hand was on his arm as she reached his side, and then she stood in front of him. He stopped mid step, just short of the glow of a streetlight and turned from her.

"I'm sorry," she said again, maddeningly so.

"I know you're sorry," he hissed, "but that doesn't help what's happened," he said, his voice cracking, keeping his eyes averted from her. He couldn't tell her. He had murdered two people. Tears pricked his eyes and he blinked them away. How the hell could he live with this?

She remained silent, perhaps because she wasn't sure that saying 'sorry' again was the right thing, but she was, terribly so, to see him like this. She held his arm and moved closer to him, encircling his back, feeling him trembling beneath her hand. If she couldn't tell him she was sorry, she could show him.

"I'm fine," he whispered at her touch, still looking away from her, willing himself to calm down. Shaking from head to foot with his heart hammering and his breath coming in short pants, he finally turned to her. "Really, I'm fine." But the tear that slid down his cheek betrayed him.

"It's okay to not be fine, Ress. It's okay for it to hurt."

He shook his head as more silent tears fell, and now it was his turn to apologize.

"No, don't. You have nothing to be sorry about," she whispered, holding his arm and rubbing his back.

Nothing to be sorry about? He looked up at the streetlight near them, framed by the purple evening sky. He had everything to be sorry about. He'd done the unthinkable. And standing under the soft glow of the nearby streetlight, he dropped his head as unchecked tears fell, and she held onto him. For someone who had always tried to hide his emotions, he no longer could. Had been unable to for some years now. Since meeting the woman beside him, apparently. He heard her whispering as she rubbed his back, holding onto his arm. After a minute or two, he brushed the woolen arm of his coat across his cheeks, and turned to her with red rimmed eyes.

"Sorry," he said again, sniffing. And the look in her own tear filled eyes told him everything he needed to know. She cared deeply for him. And there was no way he was breaking that by telling her who he'd become. Not now, at least, and probably never.

"Come on," she said, patting his back. "I'll make you a cup of tea," she said, inviting herself up to his apartment.

He nodded, and gave her a weak smile as they walked arm in arm back up the path toward his building.

###

Entering his apartment, he flipped on the lamp in the living room and collapsed on the couch, still in his coat. Exactly the same as last night, he noted. He closed his eyes at that thought.

Liz stood over him, asking him for his coat. Lifting up a little, he pulled it off and handed it to her, then loosened his tie and top button of his shirt. "I'll make us that tea," she said and made her way to the kitchen. As she flipped on the light, he heard her exclaim. "Whoa, what happened here?" He had no idea what she meant. "You have a fight with your coffee maker?"

And in a rush, it came back to him. "Oh, right. I forgot about that," he said, rising from the couch. "I'll clean it up."

"No, stay there," she told him, almost pushing him back to the living room, patting his chest as she did so, looking up into his still bloodshot eyes. "I got this." Opening a cupboard, she found the mop and after picking up the pieces of broken cup, she set about mopping the coffee off the floor, cleaning up the mess. And while he sat on the couch, she came back a few minutes later with two cups of tea.

"You know, I only drink tea when you're here," he said, taking the mug from her, and she smiled.

"Well, perhaps it will help you hold off on reaching for the whisky," she offered, and with a glance at the bar to his right, he had to agree. Whisky and its mind numbing effect sounded pretty good. But he didn't want to drink it. He couldn't afford loose lips and thoughts right now. He slouched back on the couch, resting the mug of hot tea on his chest. The warmth soothed the muscles that had been constricted all day. His chest hurt from it.

"Did Gale have a family?" she asked suddenly, her thoughts obviously not far from him either.

"He wasn't married, but he had a mother and sister," he told her, "Or still did, last I heard from him a few years ago." A memory hit him again, of Julian and himself in a bar in Amsterdam, and Gale, half-drunk, was telling him how Ressler was going to be his best man at his wedding. When he found a woman who was lucky enough to have him, he'd said. And Ressler promised to return the favor. Audrey wasn't too fond of the idea, but that's how it would have been.

"And Hitchin, although we didn't like the woman and what she did to Reven Wright, she had a husband and son," Liz mused, sipping her tea. "Her boy lost his mom."

Ressler looked away from her, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what it was like to grow up with a parent killed in the line of duty. She wasn't on duty, but she'd died nonetheless. And his mind was back at the Presidential Commission, with Hitchin handing him a bag of leftovers from her son's Bar Mitzvah. He swallowed hard against the memory.

Her phone dinged with a text, and she quickly typed something. He glanced across at her. "Just the sitter checking in," she explained.

"Right," he said, pulling himself out of his reverie and sitting up straighter, placing his cup on the coffee table. "You should head home. You have a baby girl who needs you," he said, rising from the couch to stand.

She stood also. "I have a friend who needed someone too," she replied. At his look, she smiled. "One who is often too stubborn to admit it, until he has no choice."

He turned to her, tilting his head a little. "Yeah, who would that be?" he asked, trying to lift his mood.

She smiled and approached him, slipped her arms around him and he returned her embrace, his arms around her back. "I'm your friend, Ress, and I care," she said softly. "Never forget that."

He dropped his head to her shoulder, feeling her close against him. "I know," he told her. "I know, Liz."

She stepped back from him, patted his chest and looked at him. "You gonna be okay?" she asked.

He met her eyes. They were so blue and bright and gazed at him. He didn't deserve her concern. If she knew… If she knew who he was now. But while he may not deserve it, it helped somewhat. He nodded, "Yeah, I think so."

She smiled and stepped away, picked up her phone and stood ready to leave. "See you tomorrow? Or are you going to take Cooper up on his offer?"

"See you tomorrow, Liz," he said, knowing full well he'd be at work, as he locked the door behind her. Because he needed to act 'normal'. He needed to be part of a team that proved that no matter what devil you worked with, be it the likes of Reddington, Hitchin, or Prescott, some good could still come from it. Because he needed to try and believe that again.

But for the first time, he viewed himself as part of the other side of the fence now. The criminal element who had cleaners and fixers and who consorted with other criminals. 'Cavorting with criminals'. He suddenly remembered Hitchin's mocking tone as they'd walked into her front room. And Red's, 'Donald doesn't cavort'. But he did now.

No longer the boy in blue on the good side, he'd crossed that unmistakable line. Not quite a criminal, but certainly no longer a boy scout. And definitely one who did not deserve to wear the badge that now weighed heavily on his belt.

THE END


End file.
